Reflections on the Fallen
by Irena K
Summary: Bad day in New York City


There's a girl in black

Disclaimer: Death belongs to herself, but she often speaks through Neil Gaiman.

Author's Note: Still trying to exorcise some demons. Haven't succeeded entirely, but I think we're all getting there.

Rating: PG, for language

Dedication: For all those who died on 9/11/01 and for all those left behind. Wherever you are, I hope you're safe.

REFLECTIONS ON THE FALLEN

There's a girl in black.

Pretty girl, a little pale, a little thin. Her halter-top doesn't quite fit, one strap falling off her slim shoulder. Her jeans hug her snugly, hanging low on her hips before being tucked into a pair of well-loved combat boots. She ought to look tough or sour or angry or something other than cheerful but no, she smiles as he sits down next to her, teeth white against darkened lips.

"Hi."

An innocuous beginning but he doesn't particularly mind. "Am I the first?"

She nods. "Think so."

He frowns. " 'Think?' "

"Well, it's a little tough to say. This isn't the only place I'm needed right now. But, yes, I think you're the first."

"That's something, I guess."

"If you say so."

He looks down below…below where they are. He thinks about his wife, who works next door but called in sick this morning. Didn't feel right, she said. Asked him to stay home. And he laughed, told her there was nothing to worry about, kissed her on the cheek, grabbed the train and got to work fifteen minutes early. The boss gave him a nod and mentioned something about a raise.

Guess he doesn't have to worry about that anymore.

"This sucks, you know," he suddenly declares. She tilts her head to the side, stray black hairs falling across unfathomable eyes.

"You think?"

"Yeah. Did you know that asshole Terrence wasn't even _there_? Threw a snit when the right paper hadn't gotten in and stalked off to buy a new one. I mean, I'm a nice guy, right? Got a wife, kid, try not to piss too many people off, help out where I can. So, why the hell am I with you and that dick's still around to make everyone miserable?"

"Just the way it is."

He glares at her. "That's the best you've got? I thought you anthropo-whatzit's knew all this crap."

The harsh words do nothing to faze her and she remains calm, peaceful. "I know a lot about things. Even about life. But I don't have answers for you."

"Yeah? So, what good are you?"

Her eyes narrow and he feels a slight chill, which is a bit odd considering he doesn't have an actual body anymore. "I'm very good. And I didn't say there weren't answers out there, only that I don't have them."

"Who does then?"

"No one." Eyes as deep as the ocean pierce straight through him. "They're the wrong questions."

"Oh."

He thinks about this, watching with detached curiosity at the activity below them. He's suddenly reminded of a book he read in college and blurts out, "Forty-two."

She raises one raven-wing eyebrow. "Pardon me?"

"Forty-two," he repeats, absurdly pleased with himself. "That was the answer I was looking for."

She gives him a rueful grin and shakes her head. "You have no idea how many times I've heard that one. Still, it was a pretty good book."

"You've read it?"

"Uh-huh."

"Wow. I always wondered what you did in your spare time."

"And now you do."

"Huh." That doesn't seem right somehow. Like her joy and dazzling smile, it fits poorly with the gloom and despair that always surrounds her. Yet, he also feels comforted by this information – anyone who can recognize Douglas Adams can't truly be bad. The universe is simply unable to operate that way.

"Come on," she says, rising. A small, feminine hand reaches out towards him.

He accepts her offer and gets to his feet. "There's gonna be a lot of us."

"I'm afraid so." There's no disguising the sadness in her voice and he frowns.

"I'd think you'd be thrilled at that. More work for you, right?"

She shakes her head, disappointed. "I love my job, but I hate when people misunderstand it, acting like I'm the only thing that matters."

"You aren't?" He means it as a joke, not to be answered, but she turns those sad, wonderful eyes on him, all joy fled from her face. She has never been so beautiful yet he only wishes he had some way to bring her smile back.

"Of course I'm not. Living's a lot more important than dying."

He has no answer for her because he is no longer capable of the former and has just finished the latter. He spares one more glance at the city and reflects briefly on it. He wonders if he'll miss it, if it'll miss him, but he doubts it. Eyes close for the last time and he steps into her embrace.

Death spreads her wings…

FIN


End file.
